Peeve Farm

g r o t t o 1 1

Peeve Farm
Breeding peeves for show, not just to keep as pets

  Blog \Blôg\, n. [Jrg, fr. Jrg. "Web-log".
     See {Blogger, BlogSpot, LiveJournal}.]
     A stream-of-consciousness Web journal, containing
     links, commentary, and pointless drivel.

On My Blog Menu:

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As the Apple Turns
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Cold Fury
Capitalist Lion
Red Letter Day
Eric S. Raymond
Tal G in Jerusalem
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Corsair the Rational Pirate
.clue

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Monday, June 3, 2002
19:12 - Barbie Dolls as Kryptonite	(top)
Lance and I were recently watching cartoons, and he noted that in the toon world, one's genitals are located on the lips. That's evidently why male characters always react with such insane, explosive, wild-takey Tex-Avery-ism when they manage to get a kiss from a female character. I had to imagine, by extrapolation, that in the TV world (or perhaps in the real world at large), one's genitals are located in the eyes. That's the only thing that could possibly explain to me this seemingly universally accepted notion of girl-watching. You know, the honest and private appreciation, for its own sake, of some appealing human form that you see going by in front of you. Reading Steven den Beste's treatise on string bikinis (our last best hope in defeating international Wahhabism as well as both feminism and male chauvinism), I started out grinning at how silly and flip a joke it must be. But as it grew longer and longer, I started to wonder. I started looking over my shoulder to see if there was a hidden camera somewhere. I started wondering if I were being hypnotized into some kind of Matrix of bewilderment while some guy stole all my stuff. Apparently the practice of girl-watching is not a joke. Apparently people do get honest enjoyment from staring at other people. Now, I'm not making any declarations about the pros or cons or the ethics or morals of this practice. I don't think there's a thing wrong with it unless it makes the target uncomfortable. But I'm just confused at how universal and potent the draw seems to be. Do people really find themselves turning their heads so they can watch the movements of passing breasts or butts on the sidewalk? Do men actually sign up for aerobics classes so they can lurk at the back of the room and drool? Do people honestly like to watch girls jumping on trampolines? I've watched The Man Show enough times to understand that it's well beyond an Avery-esque slapstick joke; these guys apparently can detect some kind of up-and-down jiggle that's pleasing enough to them that they will spend a day in blistering poolside sunlight in order to stare at it. I just don't get it. And I don't think it's only because girls aren't my thing, either. I can honestly say that I feel no magnetic force yanking my head around and making me crash into telephone poles no matter what shape any passing human is. I'm similarly confused by celebrity worship. Right now there's an entire industry making money off the trade of illicit pictures of Pamela Anderson, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and ... uh... I don't know. Fill in some supposed sex-goddess name here. Why? How can a person lust after someone they've never even met-- of whose personality they have not the slightest idea? It's just another body once the clothes are off-- those things that make people different, e.g. the face and the brain, are diluted beyond any meaning. Are these people supposed to be better in bed than the people you know in your everyday life? Are their bulbous bodily components actually orders of magnitude larger or more numerous than civilian ones? Or is it just the romance of an unattainable goal that spreads over the entire package? What's wrong with me? Is it some glandular problem? Am I missing some little gall-bladdery organ that normally releases some kind of enzyme that makes people enjoy alcohol and donuts and causes them to hit themselves in the head with shoes when someone talks to them with a Mae West accent? Maybe it's some trauma from my childhood. I remember back when I was about nine, and fascinated with cars, I would point out cool automobiles passing by our windows on the freeway whenever I saw one. "Whoah, look at that car! That was a Testarossa!" I remember my mom noting with a smirk that "One of these days, you'll be saying, 'Hey, wow! Look at that girl!' all the time." I remember going silent and internally vowing, yeah, right-- I'll show her. So maybe that's what happened. ...What? Stop laughing at me.